


Exhaustion

by magistrate



Category: White Collar
Genre: Exhaustion, Friendship, Gen, Peter mocks because he loves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:25:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magistrate/pseuds/magistrate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt fill for azertynin at LJ's Collar Corner.  "Missing scene for 2x04 (By The Book).  When the case is closed, [Neal] is so exhausted, he falls asleep somewhere he shouldn't."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exhaustion

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt Details:**
> 
>  
> 
> Missing scene for 2x04 (By The Book)
> 
> Prompt/Request: In the episode, Neal almost falls asleep in Peter's car because he has barely slept since Mozzie is in trouble. Missing scene : When the case is closed, he is so exhausted, he falls asleep somewhere he shouldn't.
> 
> Characters: Neal, Peter + anyone (up to the writer)
> 
> I would Like: Neal falling asleep in the Burke's home or Peter's car or at the office and Peter taking care of him.
> 
> I Don't Want: crack!fic, death!fic, crossover, slash, ot3.

There were parts of FBI operations that, Neal would admit, were almost as good as working a heist or a con.  There was the same giddy rush in a good takedown, the same adrenaline surge in getting into and out of tight corners, the same sense of satisfaction at seeing everything coming together, a job well done.

Difference was, after a heist, it was traditional to go somewhere safe and quiet and have a glass of wine in celebration.

With the FBI, it was paperwork.

And processing.  Statements to be taken, evidence to be logged.  An endless cycle of bureaucracy that Neal put up with because it was part of life in the Bureau, and he'd known, more or less, what he was getting into.  Granted, he hadn't foreseen the possibility of Mozzie's life and all its attendant complications dovetailing into his FBI responsibilities – Mozzie, who treated the FBI as though it was radioactive, and had done his level best to disappear as soon as Gina was safe, only prevented from doing so when Jones all but caught him by the scruff of the neck – but, given how life's sense of humor tended to treat Neal on the best of days, Neal supposed he probably should have foreseen it.

Now, three-quarters-hour after Navarro had been led away in cuffs, Mozzie was giving his statement to the only person in the office whose patience could stretch thin enough to cover him and Neal was at his desk, wondering vaguely if it would be worth starting his written report just so he wouldn't have to do it tomorrow.  Given the option, he'd prefer not to do it at all, but Peter avoided giving him that option whenever possible.

The adrenaline that had supported him from the moment outside the Sutherland to the final confrontation with Navarro and his men had worn off, and what it left was a dusty, cottony feeling on the inside of his skull, a leaden feeling everywhere else, and the feeling that his brain had reached the limits of its processing power.

After a while of staring at the computer screen and making no progress on a decision, even, Neal stood and wandered back in the direction of the interview rooms.  In one of them, audible through the one-way glass, Peter was trying heroically to impress on Mozzie why nothing he'd done in the last twenty-four hours had been the sensible or correct course of action.  Neal quirked a smile, found an unused chair in one of the back rooms, and dragged it around to the window to watch the show.

...and the next thing he knew, someone was tapping on his forehead in a singularly smug way.

Instinct catapulted him far enough out of sleep to see whether or not he was in danger, but he didn't appear to be; not unless Peter had just learned about something ( _think_ , his brain told him; _what have you been up to off the books, anything?–anything?_ ), and he ran down a quick mental inventory of everything he had on him (hadn't stolen any badges, recently, or car keys, pens – he should lift Peter's Quantico pen, but he hadn't, yet), and it took him until about then to realize that something had gone very weird in his life for that to be the checklist he ran down when he woke up with an FBI agent in his face.  Not that this situation had been terribly prevalent in his life before.

"What?" he said, then blinked and looked around.  The hall was empty, as was the interview room – no Mozzie to be seen.  Nor anyone else.  "What time is it?"

"Quarter after five," Peter said, and Neal pushed himself into a slightly more dignified sitting position.  The snatch of sleep he'd grabbed had only made him more tired, with the bone-deep exhaustion of someone whose body was still stuck somewhere in the sleep cycle while their brain failed to catch the hint.

"What time _was_ it?"

"That you decided to nap in the most uncomfortable chair the Bureau had to offer?" Peter asked.  "I don't know.  We finished up half an hour ago and sent everyone home.  I checked your anklet to see if you'd headed home, and here you were."

"I was waiting for Mozzie," Neal said.

"Mozzie scampered."  Peter shrugged.  "Maybe he thought you needed your beauty sleep."

Neal blinked at him some more.  "Well, if all you're going to do is _mock_."  He pushed himself out of the chair, ignoring the overwhelming urge to sit back down and go back to sleep.  His neck was stiff, and a dull ache had spread through his upper thighs and lower back; Peter hadn't been kidding about the chair being uncomfortable.

And, it occurred to him, of everyone in the office, Peter would probably be the one to know where to fall asleep here, if necessary.  Between the hours that he worked and the increasingly-apocryphal barriers between his work life and home life, Neal wouldn't be surprised if he had somewhere to crash in the building – some converted storage closet with a cot and a shower and a coffee maker and an alarm that didn't have a setting beyond "half an hour in the future".

"Have you slept, yet?" he asked.

Peter put a hand on his shoulder, steering him out toward the office and the bullpen and the elevators.  "I was heading home to do just that.  You should do the same."

Neal made a noncommittal noise and let the pressure on his shoulder guide him.

Halfway to the elevator, Peter asked "How are you getting home?"

He hadn't thought that far ahead.  "I'll call a cab," he said, because the thought of walking made him want to turn around and fall asleep on his desk.  Or maybe in the conference room – those chairs weren't terrible.  Or he could lockpick his way into Hughes' office; the boss always got the best chair, right?

"Mm," Peter said.  "Or I could just drive you."

"How are you even still awake?" Neal asked, as Peter hit the call button for the elevator.  Awake and mostly coherent, whereas Neal was still wondering if it was worth the effort to pull himself together and look less like the shambling dead.  Usually, it would be – he had a reputation to maintain – but the office was empty, everyone sensible was long gone, and Peter had already seen him in considerably worse states than this.

"I'm used to long cases."  The elevator opened, and Peter steered him inside.  His hand hadn't left Neal's shoulder, Neal realized, like Peter was concerned about him curling up into the nearest available corner and drifting off again.  "I'm surprised you can't do it."

"Hm," Neal said.  "I prefer to be well-rested.  Improves brain function."  He made a vague gesture toward his brain, and leaned against the wall.

"And most of your little exploits aren't time-sensitive," Peter said.  "Or, if they are, they're the kind of time-sensitive where you know what's going to be happening and when, three days in advance, and can sleep in?"

"Proactive, not reactive," Neal agreed, and fished in his mind for what he was supposed to be saying.  "...allegedly."

Peter gave him a very quiet chuckle, and led him out of the elevator and down to the car, where Neal dropped into the passenger seat, buckled himself in, and leaned back with a soft sigh.

...and the next thing he knew, someone was tapping on his temple.

He waved his hand in the direction of the tapping, blinked himself back to consciousness again, and looked over to see Peter giving him an amused look.  "What?"

"You're home," Peter said, and Neal looked out the window.  Sure enough, there was June's house, and when had that happened?

"Oh."

There was a stretch of silence, in which Neal debated the relative merits of getting out of the car (pros: his own bed awaited; cons: moving sounded like more effort than he was capable of mustering without some serious forethought) and just falling asleep again (pros: no moving; the seats in Peter's car were actually quite comfortable; cons: Peter would probably start poking him again, and he'd have made the decision, voluntarily, to sleep in a _car_ ).  He hadn't reached a conclusion when Peter sighed, turned off the ignition, and got out, himself.  A moment later Peter was opening the passenger-side door, and reaching across Neal to unbuckle him.

Well, that was humiliating.  "That really wasn't necessary," Neal said, and extracted himself from the car with only slightly more effort than it would have taken to extract himself from a tar pit.  "I _can_ walk," he pointed out, as Peter caught his elbow.

"Mm-hmm," Peter said, not sounding at all convinced.

Neal was expecting Peter to leave him at the door, but Peter apparently didn't think that letting Neal out of his sight was a good idea.  Probably thought he'd get three steps inside and curl up on the hardwood floors and leave Peter to answer to June, or something.  And at this point, arguing with him seemed like it would take more energy than it was worth, so Neal just said "You're being a little ridiculous, really," and acquiesced to an escort up to his room.

He was half-expecting Mozzie to be there, lurking, but thankfully Mozzie was nowhere in evidence.  Visiting with Gina, maybe, if Gina wasn't busy untangling the mess she'd gotten into with Tommy; in the back of his head, Neal hoped it would work out for everyone involved, though he wasn't sure what kind of solution could possibly offer that.  But for all Neal gave him a hard time, Mozzie deserved a little happiness, and there was something awkward and sweet about his mystery-and-ascot-based flirtation.  And now Neal was in serious danger of becoming maudlin, so it was something of a relief that Peter flipped back the corner of the sheets on his bed and pushed him toward it.

"Sleep," he ordered.  "Tomorrow's another day."

"We don't get a day off after all this?" Neal asked, and fiddled with the buttons on his shirt.  Peter gave him a crooked smile.

"No rest for the wicked," he said.  "Sleep tight, Neal."

He headed for the door.

"Yeah," Neal said, and toed off his shoes as Peter left.  Belatedly, after Peter's footsteps had faded down the stairs, he managed, "You too."


End file.
